


6000 years since

by heavensenq



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Walking Anxiety Attack Anthony J Crowley, crowzira, well they were never really enemies but lets just go with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensenq/pseuds/heavensenq
Summary: An angel, tasked to guard the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden.A demon, tasked with causing general havoc in the hope of disrupting God's Great Plan.An unlikely friendship, tasked with ruining both their lives in the hopes of finding love in the process.





	1. I want to break free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it physically pains me to write crowley as crawly

Crawly missed his old wings.  
It was hard not to, what with Aziraphale's being such a lovely shade of white.  
Crawly's new wings were huge, and they itched like the devil. He thought they made him look decrepit.  
It's not like he had wanted these new wings, anyway. But Lord Beelzebub had decided that they couldn't have anything to do with 'the Upstairs'. No nice white wings, no proper lighting, no tailored suits.  
Another thing Crawly hated about Hell: the endless rules. You would think that demons would be the last creatures to have rules- running rampant around the earth eating children is sort of their thing, after all. This is only partially true. For the most part, it is propaganda made up by Heaven.  
He had never asked for any of this to happen. He’d never even said anything really bad, like some of the stuff he’d heard the other demons come out with. He’d just asked a few questions, poked around a bit. And then one day, the angels started falling. No-one really knew what was going on. God hadn’t even shown up. Crawly doubted if she had even been properly paying attention when it happened. It was a great deal of screaming and flames, and suddenly, he was stumbling off the white clouds into the dark depths. Crawly had no idea what was going on. It wasn’t like he wanted to be a demon. He was perfectly happy in Heaven, although he did get tremendously bored a great deal. (Aziraphale had agreed on this once very quietly. It as hard not to. There’s nothing much to do in Heaven apart from a stroll through beautiful parks in glorious sunshine, while a choir of angels serenades you. It gets old very quickly, Crawly soon found out.  
And Hell was awful. All of the demons seemed to have decided that along with the rules, they were going to shun basic personal hygiene. Crawly was so glad when he got sent to the Garden, he could’ve wept. (Honestly, the flies were the last straw.)  
He might’ve been more inclined to work for Below if everyone didn’t take things so seriously. It drove Crawly crazy, the constant drivel about what God was planning, and how ‘evil never sleeps’. Mind you, the angels weren’t any better. They acted so high and mighty all the time, even before Crawly had fallen. Apart from Aziraphale. He knew he would get in terrible trouble if his superiors every found out that he was talking to _the Other Side_ , but in all honesty, right now, Crawly couldn’t care less. And Aziraphale laughed at his jokes, even though he pretended he hadn’t, which was more than either side had ever done for him. 

*

Aziraphale’s wings were most definitely not made for rain. They were shower proof, at the most. He had no idea why God had felt the need to invent it. Aziraphale was perfectly happy to water the hydrangeas by hand. And it was just a plain nuisance. On the first day it rained, it soaked straight through his nicest robe. If that demon hadn’t come along- what was his name again? Creepy? Crawly? If Crawly hadn’t come along, Aziraphale might’ve thought the entire business was an utter waste of time. Though he’d be damned if he let his superiors catch wind of that, he thought, and quickly buried it under the ever-growing mountain of questions in his brain about ‘the Great Plan’.  
And what good was guarding the gate of Eden now the humans had been banished, anyway? If they were honestly stupid enough to try and return, after everything, Aziraphale was in a right mind to take his flaming sword right back.  
He would be better used inside the garden, tending to the animals, or better yet, nice and snug up in Heaven, where the sky was always blue and cloudless, and Aziraphale never had to waste perfectly good miracles on drying out his suit.  
Crawly had snorted when he had said that.  
_“Honestly, Aziraphale, give away one flaming sword and suddenly you wish you’d fallen!”_  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Crawly!” Aziraphale had said, in a high squeak. ”And besides, keep your voice down!” He glanced worriedly at the sky, waiting for the disembodied voice and the blast of light to strike him down. “You never know who is listening. After the whole Adam and Eve fiasco, God is in a very…smite-y mood.”  
Crawly grinned wickedly, and Aziraphale gave him a small smile back, before he realised what he was doing and banished it to the pits of Hell.  
“You could just leave, angel. How about it? You and me. We could just walk off, right now. Heaven and Hell be damned.”  
Aziraphale looked like he’d just been struck by lightning.  
“Come on, angel, don’t look at me like that. We could always come back. No-one would notice. No-one would care.”  
Aziraphale harrumphed. “I would care,” he said. “Honestly, Crawly, the ideas you come out with. An angel, and a demon! Upstairs would have a riot!”  
Crawly sneered. “I don’t care. Damn it all! This whole ridiculous pantomime of ‘Good’ and ‘Evil’ when everyone knows that they’re practically the same, apart from my side having worse hygiene, and your side being better dressed!” He paused, lowering his sunglasses. “Well,” he coughed, grinning again. “Thanks for the sunglasses.”  
“What sunglasses?” Aziraphale had replied, before Heaven took him up to Head Office for fraternising and bribery.  
But Crawly had already gone.  
The sunglasses had been a nice touch, Aziraphale thought. Crawly was constantly fussing about his eyes. They were snake’s eyes, yellow-green with long black slits where the pupils should’ve been. They had scared Aziraphale half to death the first time he’d seen them, though he’d tried not to show it. It was a gift, for all the times Crawly had let him wait under his wings for the rainstorms to stop. Crawly’s wings were huge and black and magnificent. If a little ominous at times.


	2. The show must go on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley grapples with the Middle Ages.
> 
> (this fic will be set in England, as that's where my knowledge of history lies. any historical events will be explained in the notes at the end.)

Crowley hated to admit it, but he was actually starting to enjoy himself. He had never found the idea of ‘good deeds’ particularly tasteful. And this, whatever he was doing, seemed considerably more fun. You see, what Crowley did, in the most basic sense, couldn’t be considered _evil_. Not in the way that the other demons went about it, anyway, with their wrath and their hellfire. No, he went about it, in what he considered a much ‘classier’ way. (The other demons still called him ‘soft’.)  
He had still landed a fair few souls in Hell, sure. He’d received a selection of commendations for his work (Of course, Crowley knew, it was far easier to commend someone when they neither of you actually knew what they were doing. It was the equivalent of rewarding someone for their ability to get through a maze blindfolded when everyone really knew that it was pure chance and very thin fabric.)  
For instance, he had spent a good deal of the 14th century in Scotland. (This was, of course, before Crowley fell asleep, due to the inescapable boredom he was suffering from. No wonder the humans had nicknamed it ‘the Dark Ages’.) He had delved into music since Ancient Egyptian times, but he was especially proud of ‘the bagpipes’. Hell, in fact, was so pleased with them that they commissioned a pair for the Hall of Fame. Crowley had actually found it hilarious, seeing as the Scots had taken such a liking to them they were now considered a staple. And though Crowley could’ve never stayed in Scotland because of the awful weather, and the inordinate amount of sheep, he took great pleasure in the people. Their continued miserable outlook on life was so admirable that Crowley had sent an anonymous memo to Head Office, telling them to ‘ _take a leaf out of Scotland’s book_ ’.  
Crowley, unlike most demons, who preferred the slow, methodical, one-soul-for-damnation at a time approach, was inclined towards the ‘mass chaos’ angle. He found it far more efficient- and far more entertaining, at that, to cause as much inconvenience to everyone as possible at once, and by that way, chip away at their souls little by little. Take, for example, the Forest Laws. Absolute pandemonium, all because some selfish bugger thought he enjoyed hunting more than the entirety of Britain liked eating. Of course, Crowley couldn’t take the credit for them. (Though, when Head Office had sent through a message of approval, Crowley had done nothing to let them think any different. He often found himself taking inspiration from the humans for their creativity- their evil was always far more intricate and cruel than anything he’d ever devised.) In all honesty, Crowley had found the whole affair rather sickening, though that was beside the point.  
But recently, Crowley was stuck in a rut that he couldn’t seem to get himself out of, no matter how hard he tried. He knew that he couldn’t just fall asleep like he had done last time, just over two centuries ago. Hell had kicked up quite a fuss, and he had vowed to himself only to do it if he was extremely bored.  
The only thing keeping Crowley from calling it a day currently were the witch trials, though he wondered whether _the Other Side_ had more of a hand in them than he’s previously suspected. He’d given them the starting push, but was now starting to regret ever bringing up the matter at all. All this accusing of ‘being in league with Satan’, and ‘communing with the Devil’. Really, Crowley found it all rather offensive. The Devil didn’t actually do much at all, least of all channel his infernal being through some ordinary innocent woman to curse somebody’s crops. It had all got out of hand rather quickly. Crowley hoped that the humans would see sense soon.  
He hadn’t seen Aziraphale for ages, not since 430 AD, or somewhere around then. He wondered what the angel was getting up to- he’d heard a couple of things that had piqued his interest- ‘a library’ had seemed very Aziraphale’s style. But Crowley didn’t want to push it right now, not with Below getting so tetchy at the huge influx of souls of ‘witches’ that often had to be sent back up to Heaven for proper inspection.  
Their last chat had not been particularly affable- although, they never were, what with Aziraphale being so concerned what Upstairs would think. But Crowley found it hard to blame him. Belial knows, he was the same. And for all the great work Crowley was doing, deep down, he still hoped that somewhere, Aziraphale was still cancelling him out, if only slightly. That he hadn’t disappeared off the face of the Earth, gone up to live with the other angels like he had kept going on about. Aziraphale was the only person who had ever actually wanted to talk to him about something that wasn’t orders, or ‘the Great Plan’, or whichever one they were going on about nowadays. And for however much Hell commended him for whatever feat he’d managed to accomplish, he missed sharing anecdotes about the past century over a good glass of wine. He hoped Aziraphale wasn’t angry at him.  
_Honestly, Crowley_ , he thought to himself, _since when did you get so soppy? If anything, he's a bad influence of you. 'Bringing you closer to the light' and all that rubbish. Who cares if the angel is angry at you? Besides, even if he was, don’t you think over a thousand years is ample time for him to get over himself? Get a grip, Crowley, he’s probably in Spain or somewhere sunny right now, enjoying proper food and being waited on hand and foot, while you sit here, wasting away in this dismal hellhole. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and get some perspective._  
Sometimes Crowley wondered whether the voice in his head was his, or simply a direct link to Satan. He had more than enough cause to think the latter.

Aziraphale was not in fact, in Spain, or anywhere sunny, for that matter. He was currently sitting in a dreary bar in Stratford-Upon-Avon, a couple of miles away, listening to several men perform a rather dull play. He had only come for pity’s sake- the men had seemed somewhat desperate when they had asked him, after all. And Aziraphale, being kind and willing and unable to say no, went with them. He, as it happens, was thinking about Crowley at that moment, as he drifted into a stupor. Crowley would have never let himself be dragged into this sort of thing. He was always teasing Aziraphale about how he let people walk all over him: Gabriel, Michael, Barachiel. Aziraphale was half inclined to just get up and leave. 

 

In the same bar, several years later, Aziraphale was sitting listening to the same men perform the same play. He was also, coincidentally, thinking about the same thing. There were a few differences, however: firstly, the bar was empty this time, so the players could not use the excuse that their voices would not carry over fifty odd drunks. Secondly, the play was (with the help of Aziraphale, of course), not quite half as boring as it had been before. Thirdly, he was accompanied by someone. This someone, as it happens, was Crowley, and he was in a rather bad mood. Demons tend to be, that is generally considered to be their nature- 'fire and fury' and all that.  
But in this case, Crowley angry at something quite different.  
"Honestly, Aziraphale, you can't let walk all over you!" he whispered frustratedly, ignoring the angry looks Shakespeare and his men were throwing him. Crowley had never been a fan of the archangels, especially Gabriel, the puffed up bastard. Gabriel had made it very clear to Crowley that, in the nicest, most pretentious way possible, the feeling was mutual. “Honestly, I don’t know why you even try to be friendly with them!”  
“Because they’re my bosses!” spluttered Aziraphale.  
“Doesn’t mean you have to chum up with them. I don’t see why you try so hard, angel. They make me sick.”  
"They're an acquired taste," Aziraphale muttered, as politely as possible. He suddenly had an urge to tell Crowley everything, all the things that they had said to his face, and behind it. All the little comments, chipping away at Aziraphale’s morale, for thousands of years. Of course, nothing was really mean, that wasn't what angels did. They were just cruel. Because they knew that Aziraphale wasn't as good as them. And deep down, Aziraphale knew it, too.  
Now, generally, Crowley knew, when adults talk about "acquired tastes", they are talking about some food that their child has just spat out in front of all of their work colleagues- mushrooms, or celeriac.  
Aziraphale, on the other hand, meant: "I can see why they don't always seem nice to you, but I promise they're perfectly civil once you get to know them. You wouldn't understand, you're a demon". This, given Aziraphale's (often irritating) tendency to 'look on the bright side', really wasn’t a compliment at all.  
“Look, Crowley, could we not talk about this right now? Please?” He smiled his best smile at him, the one he’d been taught in Angel Training for those charity workers who just wouldn’t go away. Crowley just growled.  
“Look, stay, would you? I haven’t seen you in at least a century.”  
Crowley grunted. It had been quite a lot longer.“Getting up to all sorts, I expect?”  
Aziraphale looked vaguely irked. “Actually, I haven’t done much at all. I was beginning to think--” he smoothed down his shirt, “--Well, I was beginning to think that you’d… fallen off the map, you know.”  
Crowley gave a loud giggle.  
“Excuse me?” came a rather indignant voice over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Excuse me, my good fellows, but we are _trying_ to perform a play here, which we cannot do if you are chatting away like you are getting paid for it!” Crowley reached for his sunglasses, preparing to give him a big dramatic hiss for good measure, but was cut short by Aziraphale, who promptly poked him under the table.  
“I do apologise, Mister Shakespeare,” said Aziraphale stiffly, with an awkward smile. “We were just discussing the finer points of the plot. It’s really very good.”  
“Er,” said Shakespeare. He was finding it very hard to look at Aziraphale’s friend, even through the weird dark glasses he wore on his face. He gave him the shivers. Suddenly, quite without telling his legs to, he found himself walking away. He saw Crowley smile at him from the corner of his eye. He had an air about him that made his bones rattle about his body.  
“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, sharply. “You can’t just...do that!”  
“Do what?” said Crowley, grinning. “He must’ve just been intimidated by my dashing good looks and devilish charm. And anyway, it’s a terrible play.”  
“It’s a good play! You said that line… what was it? ‘sit by my side, and let the world slip, we shall never be younger.’ You said that was a good line!”  
Crowley shrugged. “Still a terrible play.”  
Aziraphale didn’t have the energy to do anything except roll his eyes. Honestly, the sooner they reached the end of this Godforsaken century the better, pardon his French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick lesson in British history from your local history nerd:  
> The Forest Laws: The Forest Laws were introduced around 1072 by William the Conqueror. They basically meant that a hell of a lot of English forest was now his property so he could use it for hunting, which also meant that anyone caught hunting in it was technically poaching. This pissed a lot of people off, especially poorer people, who depended on the forest for food.  
> Witchcraft: In the Middle Ages, religion and superstition was a big part of everyday life. This strong belief in the Church, coupled with explaining everything away with ‘God’, meant that there were no advances in science for a long time, hence ‘Dark Ages’. (In fact, compared to the considerable advances of Ancient Greek society, they had regressed!) Therefore, it was easy to accuse people (especially, you guessed it, women) of witchcraft, since it was hard to disprove. So if their crop had failed, or they had come down with a nasty cold, it could easily be blamed on their next door neighbour who was getting on their nerves. If someone was found guilty of witchcraft, they were usually punished by being burnt at the stake. (Delightful, I know.)
> 
> \- hope you enjoyed! gwen x


	3. Good Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the delights of alcohol

"Now the Italians," said Crowley, holding the bottle so loosely that Aziraphale was sure it was going to end up in pieces on the stone floor, "Know how to drink." They were in Crowley’s wine-cellar, Aziraphale trying and failing to perch on a barrel.  
In 1432, Crowley had finally woken up to an extremely nervous intern holding a strongly worded message that had told him to _get his act together before Heaven really starts something_.   
Crowley had promptly buggered off to Italy, where he had been told there was good weather, good food and good wine. _Just for a few years_ , he had told himself. _Just until this good-for-nothing country can do something interesting_.   
Crowley finally reached England again five minutes after the Battle of Bosworth had ended. He had met all sorts of interesting people in Italy, the kind you can never find in Britain, and had been introduced to alcohol by one Leonardo da Vinci. Suffice to say, Crowley had ended up telling him several secrets of the universe that were definitely not meant to be heard by human ears, and had left with a signed drawing with a scrawled address on the back. Alcohol, he thought, very much agreed with him.  
He offered the bottle to Aziraphale. "Want some?"  
"Oh..no, I'd better not. The Devil's drink, and all that," said Aziraphale, making it perfectly clear that he very much did.  
"Aziraphale. For the love of all things wicked and wayward in the world, please tell me you're not taking advice on how to have fun from the Puritans."  
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.  
"Aziraphale, the Puritans wouldn't know fun if it hit them over the head with a truncheon. And besides, Satan doesn't drink. I don't think he even, like, eats food at all."  
He dangled the bottle in front of the angel's face. " _Come on_ , Aziraphale. _Lighten up_.”  
Aziraphale sniffed. "Just one sip, you understand?"

*

Several hours, and many bottles of wine later, Crowley was discovering that Aziraphale was very much an emotional drunk.   
“So they told me, Aziraphale, you must be the one to start the Enli-...Enlightenment." He stumbled over his words. "And I said, well what was all this blesséd work with all these witch trials for?" Aziraphale said, knocking one of Crowley's expensive shiny glasses onto the stone tiles, jumping as it shattered. "And they said- they said that I must've remembered it all wrong, because I actually had nothing to do with that, and it was all your side."  
Crowley scrunched his nose. "It was only a bit," he said. "I didn’t do any of the…you know...cursing.” Aziraphale nodded.  
“I think,” said Crowley, “I think that it was all a bit of an exaggeration. They like lying down here, they’re very good at it, too, ‘cause I know for a fact that the Devil doesn’t just run around willy-nilly possessing people like some sort of amateur spirit.” He laughed to himself. Aziraphale still looked worried.  
“But Crowley, it was like they didn’t even care! They were burning people alive like they were well-done steaks!”  
“Az...Aza...Azaphale..” Crowley shook his head. The alcohol was starting to get to him. “Look...you just can’t let yourself care this much. Look what happened with Noah’s Ark. And those plagues in Egypt. Your lot aren’t always particularly...nice.”  
Aziraphale harrumphed. “Don’t let Heaven hear you say that. They’ll- they’ll smite you.”  
Crowley giggled. “Let them try.”

*

Aziraphale had hesitated to admit it, even to himself, but he’d missed having Crowley around. He’d met several wonderful people over the ages, but he was still getting to grips with how short human lifespans were, and often got back for an arranged coffee date only to arrive at their funeral.   
Everyone was always so melodramatic nowadays, reeling off long speeches about how this that and the other needed to be destroyed. And the fashion was atrocious. Honestly, when Queen Elizabeth had introduced that law that had meant everyone had to wear woollen hats, Aziraphale had had to stop himself having a sharp word with her.   
When Crowley had wandered into the bar that day, Aziraphale had to stop himself from smiling. _He’s the adversary_ , Aziraphale, he reminded himself. _He’s working for the other side. You can’t be happy to see him_.  
But Aziraphale hadn’t declined the offer of tea and cake at Crowley’s rather lovely country house, and he hadn’t declined the offer any day since. He liked Crowley’s company. And Crowley hadn’t exactly done r said anything would’ve suggested that the feeling wasn’t mutual.  
So when Crowley asked him to stay with him, Aziraphale was struggling to come up with an answer that wasn’t yes.  
“It’s not forever angel, just until things liven up a bit. We do the odd thing to keep our sides happy, and we stay here. Together. For convenience’s sake.”  
“Crowley, you and I both know that that is preposterous.”   
Crowley shrugged. “No-one’s looking.”  
Aziraphale made an inhuman noise. “How do you know?”  
“Why do you care?”   
“Because...because I don’t want to get in trouble! I don’t want you to get in trouble. I’ve heard your folks aren’t particularly...gentle.”  
Crowley snorted. “Come on, angel. Live a little. I thought you’d relaxed a bit over the last few years.”  
Aziraphale stiffened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
This sort of conversation went on fairly regularly, and though it could get heated, it was never cruel. They continued the arrangement, and no-one seemed to mind. They talked about Heaven and Hell, and everything in between, and though neither one would admit it, they were happy. They started talking, and they found it hard to stop. They talked about Good and Evil, and everything in between, how Aziraphale wanted to open a bookshop, and Crowley's passion from French pastries. Aziraphale taught Crowley how to brew a good cup of tea, and Crowley taught Aziraphale how to knit. (Crowley was starting to regret that, actually. Aziraphale often refused to wear anything else. _“You have nice suits, Aziraphale,” Crowley had said, tugging at the latest ugly addition, a bright blue jumper full of holes and knots.  
“I know, but those are just clothes. This was made with love”   
“Yeah, was it also made with rolling pins for knitting needles?” Crowley muttered, earning him a feeble whack on the knee from Aziraphale’s umbrella._)  
And little by little, as the decades fell away, Crowley and Aziraphale seemed to almost forget that they were on opposite sides, even perhaps, for a couple of seconds each day, that they were a demon and an angel. Because when they were together, the world didn’t seem quite so dull. They both had a niggling voice in the back of their heads, telling them that _this was wrong, that they were going to get in trouble_. But nothing had happened. No one had come down and angrily discorporated them, at any rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Bosworth: in 1485, two rich English families (the House of Lancaster and the House of York) went to war because they both wanted the crown. Henry VIII won and became the first of the Tudor monarchs.
> 
> Wool hat law: When Elizabeth came to the throne, England was really in debt. She passed a law that stated that basically everyone had to wear a wool hat made from English wool. This meant she got lots of money from the wool and the taxes.


	4. don't stop me now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visit from two unwelcome guests.

When Beelzebub had told Hastur and Ligur to keep an eye on Crowley, they had taken it rather literally. Demons don’t tend to deal with expressions, so it got especially confusing when humans started using euphemisms. It had taken them five years just to figure out what ‘pushing up the daisies’ actually meant.  
They had been following Crowley around through the centuries, though, as they soon found out, Crowley was very good at giving them slip. And especially now, he'd disappeared off for decades, and they had no idea where he'd gone. So Hastur and Ligur had been going about their usual evildoings, hoping that no-one came down and asked them why they'd failed to do the one thing that had been asked of them. So when they'd found him, Hastur had almost dropped to his knees right there and then. Hell wasn't particularly merciful.  
See, everyone knew Crowley was a bit of an odd one. Some days, Hastur wondered whether he'd ever even really intended to fall at all, though he didn’t dare say anything. His evil wasn’t really evil. If Hastur was the Duke of Hell, Crowley was the Duke of Inconvenience.   
There had been a big party when the Falling was happening. Of course, at first it hadn’t been intentional, but everyone seemed to be glad to get away from the archangels and their eternal glorious harmonies. Hastur was glad he had fallen. It had been so boring up there, nothing to do except be nice to each other and try to get in Gabriel’s good books. (Gabriel didn’t actually have good books, he just liked seeing everyone scurry around under him all meek and mild.)   
Crowley had come along with them. No-one actually knew how he felt about the whole business, other than he didn’t seem overly bothered. But when they had finally started falling, Crowley had hesitated.   
He’d come eventually, albeit much slower than everyone else, not so much falling as sauntering vaguely downwards. Hastur hated the way Crowley walked. It was like a swagger mixed with a strut. And he hated his clothes. Demons weren't meant to wear nice suits or walk like that. Basically, you can under that Hastur did not like Crowley very much at all.  
*  
"See, this Enlightenment is very...enlightening and all, but Satan almighty do those humanists get on my nerves," said Crowley. He was lounging over the whole of his posh black leather sofa, stretched out like a cat.  
"Don't get me started-" There was a knock on the door upstairs. Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other worriedly. Crowley had left him as a pile of dust on the porch.  
“Crawly?” The voice resounded around the huge room.  
“Shit I think...uh-”  
“What?” said Aziraphale, taken in Crowley’s unusual lack of composure. “What, Crowley?”  
“I think…uh...I think that might be Hastur.”  
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, in a small voice. “I’d better go.”  
“Yeah.” Crowley smiled apologetically. He cursed himself. He thought Hastur and Ligur had finally got off his tail. The knocks were growing ever impatient. “Crawly? I know you’re in there!”  
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered, racing up the stairs. Who the fuck did he think he was, following him around like he was a dog on a lead? He opened the door and grimaced at the stains the two demons had created on his nice clean porch. “Hastur, Ligur,” he said, warily. “What are you here for?”  
“We’re here to deliver a message from the Council of Damned Souls.” He handed Crowley a piece of paper. “Just some inspiration for the 1700s, they said. I said I’d be more than happy, but they said you were good at the details.”   
Crowley found to hard to read Hastur’s face- he had one emotion and that was disgust. However, he was pretty sure that he was pissed off. He studied the paper.  
“Ah..mm. Bloody Code. That sounds…fun,” he said. “Well, if that’s all, I'll be going now. I’ve got important business to attend to, you know how it is. So many souls to damn, so little time.” Crowley was milking it, he knew, but they were totally lapping it up. “Nice of them to send some new ideas. I’m running a bit dry, all the low hanging fruit has been picked, if you’ll forgive the bad pun.” He laughed to himself. Hastur and Ligur were stone-faced.  
“There was another thing,” Ligur cut in, before Crowley could slam the door in their faces. “We've been watching you, Crawly.”  
“Crowley,” he interjected. _Force of habit_.  
“Whatever,” said Ligur. “The point is we’ve seen the angel this area a lot, and we were thinking you might have something to do with it."  
 _Shit_ , thought Crowley. _Shit, I’ve been so careful. If Head Office catch wind of this they’ll take me off Earth for sure, they might even-/em >_  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.  
“Well, who were you talking to downstairs just a few minutes ago?”  
Crowley flushed. “Err..myself?”  
“Really?”  
“Yes. It’s a new thing I’ve invented. It’s called an..um..a one-man show.”  
They both nodded silently. Crowley couldn’t tell whether they believed him or not.  
“Doesn’t sound very...evil,” said Hastur. Ligur nodded in agreement.  
“Oh no,” said Crowley. “Very evil. Lots of of...possessing and murdering.”  
They hummed approvingly. “I’m sure Head Office would be delighted to see you perform one. They’re always going on about how they wish there was more entertainment.”  
“Oh of course,” said Crowley, deeply regretting everything. “I’d love to. See you soon, guys.”  
“Crowley?”   
“Uh huh?” he said, distractedly. He just wanted to get them off the porch. They were going to stink the whole house up.  
“If we do find out you’ve been...fraternising, you know what will happen to you. And the angel.”  
Crowley stared at him. “Yes. No. Of course. Thanks for dropping by, I’ve got lots of important work to do.” And he slammed the door before they could get another word in edgeways.


	5. nevermore

When you see someone every day, it is hard not to pick up on the little things. And Aziraphale knew- well, he wondered, whether something was up. Recently, things had been a lot quieter. They hadn’t gone anywhere, _for heaven’s sake, they had barely managed a conversation_. Crowley seemed withdrawn. And sadder, somehow. Colder.  
Aziraphale had been meaning to ask him for a while. ‘Meaning’ very definitely being the operative word. He missed the times when they would stroll up to the local tavern and talk about things- little things, a new play, the new fashion, anything that came to mind, really. Then, inevitably, get absolutely plastered and find themselves unceremoniously carted out.   
It was funny to say he missed it when those times when they were just a decade or two ago. After all, for an angel and a demon, a hundred years is like rain running down a window.   
And he missed the small things- like eating oranges in Spain, and debating which Pharaohs went to Heaven or Hell. God, it felt sinful to admit, even to himself. Did it count as fraternising?   
_Of course_ , he thought sadly. _Of course it is_.  
But it's not like there was anything going on. No big conspiracy. They were just friends. Even if they couldn't say it out loud.

*

_Old habits die hard_ , they say. With Crowley, it was his snake-ishness. If you had been around him long enough, which Aziraphale certainly had, you would start to notice the small things- how he would sometimes go hours without blinking, and how he would hiss when he got angry. And how he never moved in a straight line. He meandered around, like life was some kind of river.   
_If life was a river_ , Crowley decided, _it would be the Thames. Full of shit_.  
Aziraphale knew how Crowley wore through his soles quickly because of the way he dragged them along the ground. He knew the way he raised one eyebrow when someone said something demeaning. How he sauntered through the streets like the world owed him something.   
God, he missed that walk.   
Crowley just kept making excuses to avoid seeing him. _Well, come on, Aziraphale. He's probably just very busy. Lots of evil deeds to perform, I expect. That sort of thing_.   
And so Aziraphale went along with it, Crowley making excuses, and Aziraphale making excuses, round and round in one big ethereal infernal miserable circle.   
And so they had gone there separate ways, nothing said. One day, everything had gone silent, and it hadn't been the same since. And now when they saw each other, they would look the other way.  
Aziraphale had taken up the pianoforte- in fact, he had got Cristofori himself to teach him. He wasn't great, but it gave him something to do. Something to listen to, instead of the lonely silence.

*

It was more for Aziraphale than anything else. It's not like Crowley enjoyed being alone- demons are not solitary creatures, they like to travel in packs. But deep down, he knew he was scared. Not for himself, Hell, sometimes he wished someone would douse him with holy water. But Hastur's words echoed around his head.  
 _You know what will happen to you. And the angel._  
Because really, Aziraphale was the only friend he'd ever actually had. And he knew what the angels were like.


	6. i can't live without you

Beelzebub had been watching Crowley. She didn't make a habit out of it- just because the being in question was infernal, it didn't make their lives any less mundane and boring than a human's. Crowley had been feeling sorry for himself for quite a while now. Self-pity wasn't forbidden, but it wasn't exactly encouraged, either. Demons enjoyed misery, that was generally held as fact, especially when it was them who had inflicted it. But what they didn't enjoy was watching humans moping around with faces like wet cardboard, positively wallowing in it.   
What Crowley needed, Beelzebub decided, was a good old-fashioned torture session. Not on Crowley, of course. Though that would've definitely been something to watch. But she had found that if anything got her out of a depressive slump, it was human suffering.   
It wasn't that she cared particularly for Crowley. Hell, most of the time she found him rather annoying. He was pretty creative when it came to thinking up new sins, but he was vain. Vanity was not a quality to be admired in a demon- that was left up to the angels. And the way he walked- Lucifer almighty, if Beelzebub had a fly for every time she had gotten annoyed at Crowley, she could open a sanctuary.  
But she liked her demons to be efficient. Well-versed in trickery and quick to irritate. Catalysts, that's what demons were. Crowley was one of her higher level demons, and though he was a flashy bastard, she had an ounce of respect for him. And respect was hard to earn from demon, not least a Prince of Hell.  
Hell attacks, Heaven defends, those were the unspoken rules. And if it meant calling a meeting with Upstairs to arrange something just to get Crowley off his arse, then so be it.

*

The French revolution had been a blessing in disguise.  
It had been a crisp May day, and the sun had finally returned. Crowley had woken up to find a letter from on his doormat. It was on fire.  
After Crowley had stamped the flames out, and tried his best to fix the melted remnants of his letter box, he got his letter opener from the study and sliced open the blackened envelope.   
He was rather excited. The Dark Council didn't write letters for just anybody. In fact, they tried whole-heartedly to avoid it- letter writing was boring and time consuming. And though active demons were pressed with the 'Evil Never Sleeps' mantra, the Dark Council stuck to The Seven Deadly Sins by the letter. Crowley was pretty sure they had 'SLOTH' cross-stitched into their cushions.   
The letter was still boiling hot when he took it out. After all, Hellfire is fueled with the torment of a million million souls. And that is quite a lot of fuel.   
Crowley swore loudly, and dropped it. 

_Crowley_  
Get to France, ASAP  
Lots of inciting and rioting to come  
P.S If anyone asks who started this one, it was us. H****n just tagged along.  
P.P.S you better go, or we'll set Gabriel on you 

Crowley shivered. If there was one thing almost as bad as Holy Water, it was the archangel Gabriel. He had no idea how Aziraphale put up with him.   
_What if Aziraphale's there?_ Crowley thought. He wasn't sure if he was meant to be happy or not.   
_Well, I'll just have to avoid him._ Like I've been doing this whole century.  
That made Crowley sad. He'd never really thought that he'd been actively trying to avoid Aziraphale, more like...not talk to him. Or look at him. Or think about him.  
The latter was proving ridiculously hard.  
The letter disintegrated, ink pooling onto the floor and slithering out under the door in little black streams like snakes.

*

And that's how, several hours later, Crowley found himself standing at the back of a jostling crowd. He wasn't too strong on his French, but it was easy enough to gauge what the crowd was chanting.   
_Off with their heads! Down with the bastards! Aristos go to hell!_

He was trying his utmost to stick to the shadows. After all, as much fun as this was, Crowley knew that it would be rather less fun if his head was severed from his neck. He had reluctantly changed from his usual black buttoned coat and walking cane to something he thought said very clearly 'I am a poor French revolutionary', but was taking no chances. From what he could remember, the French weren't big fans of the English.

Mob psychology was his favourite. All you did was shout something very loud, something that everyone was thinking but had been jostled into the back corners of their brain by their common sense. If you were loud enough and confident enough, someone would join in, and once you had a few, everyone else followed like sheep. Of course, it was much harder when your voice sounded like an English nobleman who had a lisp on his S's, but he'd had plenty of practice putting bad ideas into people's minds. He'd been doing it right from the start, in fact.

As the first blade dropped and the crowd cheered, a thought slid into Crowley mind. _Aziraphale should be here._  
Of course, he'd lingered on the possibility that the angel might be, but from what he could tell, he and Aziraphale were the only two heavenly or hellish beings who actually lived here on Earth, rather than Up There or Down Below. And the letter had hinted at the fact that maybe Upstairs had had a bit of a hand in the Revolution, too. So surely they would've sent the angel who knew Earth best, who knew humans best? For show, at the very least.  
So where was he?  
As the guillotine's blade was hoisted up again and a new noble was brought on to the stage, screaming, another thought followed, leaving its sour taste on his serpent tongue.  
" _M'aidez! Seigneur, m'aidez s'il vous-_ " The shouts of the man were cut off by the clang of the guillotine's blade as it fell, and the roar of the restless crowd.

Aziraphale had always liked nice clothes. White suits and lacy shirts and tartan ties. He always bought them properly from a shop with his own money, tailor-made, though Crowley had tried to explain to him that he could simply miracle them up.  
 _And where were the people dressed in nice, expensive clothes during the French Revolution?_  
"Shit. Shit shit shit." He ran towards the stage.

*

"Crowley!"   
Aziraphale's voice had been as warm and mellow as a summer's day, though it was peppered with anxiety. Stopping time was a lot of effort, but it was worth it for the drama. (And the convenience.)  
 _Why am I not surprised._  
Aziraphale had been very happy that he had remembered about his bookshop. It wasn't like it was hard to forget. He'd only mentioned it...what? A couple of hundred times?  
They had found a cosy little crepe shop tucked into a winding back alley- abandoned, of course. (It was the Reign of Terror after all, and there's only so much you can ask of shop managers.) But it had only taken a little banging, and perhaps a miracle or two, (And Crowley burning himself on piping hot tea and swearing several times, very loudly.)   
“This is nice,” Aziraphale said, quietly. The shop was so silent, they could still hear the roar of the crowds from all those streets away.  
Crowley nodded.   
_Say something. SAY SOMETHING, YOU IDIOT._  
“Nice bowtie.”  
Aziraphale gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Crowley.”  
 _Why is this so awkward? WHY are we so awkward? Why are we not talking?  
Oh, I don’t know Crowley, maybe because you ignored him for half a century or something. Maybe he’s just got a sore throat._  
Crowley winced.  
“Are you alright, my dear?”  
He hated when he called him that. It sent a rush through his chest. A stupid, stupid, pointless rush. Stupid. _Stupid. Pointless. Forget it, Crowley._  
Shut up shut up-  
“Crowley, dear? Are you sure you’re quite alright?”   
“Mm. Fine. Great, actually. Not a big fan of France, actually. I was thinking-”  
What was he thinking? He was thinking about how he wanted to kiss Aziraphale’s pink lemonade lips. Run his fingers through his white blonde hair. Push him against the dusty bricks and-  
“St James’ Park?”  
Crowley nodded weakly. “Exactly.”  
He made a mental note to work on shutting up later.

*

"Was this yours or ours?" said Aziraphale. The wind kept blowing the rain into Crowley’s eyes, and he deeply regretted leaving his nice hat at home.  
"Hmm?"  
"The Revolution, I mean. Who gets to claim it?"  
Crowley often wondered if somewhere there was a huge scoreboard with 'HEAVEN' on one side, and 'HELL' on the other, and all the points tallied up of who got what.   
"Er, Hell, I think."   
Aziraphale made a face. "But rising up against the capitalist regime! The working classes finally giving the rich what they deserve!"   
"If, by 'what they deserve', you mean a nice decapitation, I think you need to reassess which side you're rooting for."  
Aziraphale sniffed. "Well, the guillotine's not exactly a blunt axe to the back of the neck, is it?"  
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Mass genocide, but make it nice."  
"That's...that's not what I meant-"  
Crowley was laughing. He laughed long and loud, the sound rattling around the quiet park like dice in a dice cup.  
Aziraphale tried to look stern. He tried to ignore Crowley with his stupid witchy laugh and his stupid face and his stupid eyes.  
His black serpent tongue flicking over his lips, pupils dilated.  
But he couldn't help it.   
"Crowley," he said, still hiccuping, "Don't leave me on my own again. I thought I would have to make friends with Gabriel."  
Crowley mimed vomiting. Aziraphale giggled.  
"Don't let him hear you say that . He'll make you write him a letter of apology to 'appease his wounded feelings'," he said, taking on Gabriel's pompous tone and upright posture. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and laughed again. "You know, I actually outrank him."  
"What? Gabriel?" Crowley spluttered.  
Aziraphale nodded. "He's only an archangel. But he's so bossy that everyone assumes he's in charge." He whispered the last part. However much he disliked Gabriel, he enjoyed being on his good side. Well. As good as you can get.  
Crowley giggled. "I heard he was having a secret affair with Beelzebub."  
"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, feigning shock. "You can't say that!"  
"But it's true! Haven't you see the way he looks at her?" he said, voice jolting with indignance.  
"I- I thought no-one else had noticed."  
"Beelzebub's alright, but she goes all bug-eyed when she sees him."  
"Isn't that...you know…"   
He looked into the angel's pale eyes.   
"I don't think anyone really cares, honestly. In the end, angel and demon don't mean all that much. They're just words. I could go bless a child right now, if I wanted. But I can't be bothered."   
He didn't quite know if he was trying to prove a point to Aziraphale, or himself.  
Aziraphale flushed hot red and turned away.


	7. pain is so close to pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more angsty crowley. :'( zira sounds like he's being mean but he's just conflicted ok!  
> \- enjoy! (sorry for the inconsistency, i hope gomens comes out on bbc soon)

He paused, his fingers wavering over the key.   
"And then… _A_?"  
Aziraphale sighed. "No, _C_ then _A_. Look, I'll show you again."  
In truth, Crowley could play _Für Elise_ in his sleep. It wasn't like it was terribly difficult. But watching Aziraphale's slender fingers elegantly coax the melody from the piano, now that was a sight he could get used to.   
"Look dear, if you don't try, you'll never learn."  
Crowley looked on stubbornly. "I like it more when you play it."   
Aziraphale gave him a pointed look, but he still smiled. That smile. That fucking smile. The one that made his blood crackle with electricity. The one that made something ache at the base of his throat. It wasn't pain, though. More like…warmth.   
When Aziraphale smiled, when he _really_ smiled, he got little lines around his eyes that brought out the blue of his eyes. It was a white blue, like an April sky, and if he stared at you for too long, you sort of felt like you were losing grip. He had stubby brown eyelashes, and there was a pink tint to his skin, and it was only then that Crowley realised quite how close to Aziraphale he was. There were little freckles on his nose that he'd never noticed because they were so light.   
He smelled like- what did he smell like? He was getting wrapped up in himself. _In Aziraphale._  
But the angel wasn't flinching away. He was looking at him- fuck, he was so close, and Crowley didn’t know what to do. Everything seemed to be shouting at him at once. _Do something. Do anything, just stop sitting there gazing at him like he’s a nice painting._  
But God, Satan, whatever, he could have been. Each feature measured out so perfectly his face seemed to shine every shade of gold, and _oh God, oh fuck, get away from him Crowley what are you doing?_  
But all Crowley could think of was the conversation on the Eastern Gate, and how Aziraphale had shielded Crowley from the rain. Even though everyone knows that angel wings are awful with water. It absorbs quick as anything. But he did it anyway. Even though he barely knew him. Even though he was an angel, and Crowley most definitely wasn’t.  
Crowley kissed him.  
He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Aziraphale’s lips were velvet, and he kissed him so softly Crowley wasn’t even sure if they were touching. But then... but then and then and then there was Aziraphale’s arm slipping around the back of his neck, and Crowley felt like he could melt right there.   
He was so cold, and Aziraphale was so warm, and his fingers were clasped around his neck, and…  
Aziraphale tasted like goddamn Heaven in a glass.   
_I mean, he would, wouldn’t he_ , thought Crowley. _Yeah, Crowley_ , piped up another voice. _He’s an angel.  
Shut up_, thought Crowley. _Shut up shut up shut up._

He didn’t burn. That was the one thing Crowley knew; that he had been scared of. He didn’t burn, but he might as well have.   
When Aziraphale froze, Crowley felt himself turn to stone, cell by cell.  
Aziraphale was staring at him coldly, his April eyes dulled to an icy November grey.   
“Crowley...I-” His mouth had thinned to a worried line. “Crowley...I can’t.”  
Crowley winced. “If this is about Newgate angel, we're not-"  
"I know we're not human," Aziraphale snapped. "I have nothing against being gay. Neither, for that matter, does God. She's rather upset about the whole affair, apparently."   
Crowley raised an eyebrow.  
"But what we are is a demon and an angel," Aziraphale went on.   
Crowley sighed. "I know, Aziraphale-"  
"No, Crowley. I really don't think you do."  
Crowley wasn't used to the harsh tone of Aziraphale's voice. It was like he was trying to sound angry, but it he was about to burst into tears. His voice was hard and cold, but his eyes glistened.  
"We're on opposite sides. You go on and on about how they're _just words_ and how they _don't mean anything_ when you jolly well know they do. They mean you fell and I didn't and there's nothing I can do about it. Do you know what would happen to us if our superiors found out we'd been…" He left the sentence hanging awkwardly in the air. "Why do you always seem to forget that?"   
Crowley didn't know how to respond. It had been bad we'd coming from Hastur, but from Aziraphale it felt positively poisonous.  
"Aziraphale…"  
But the angel shook his head and stood up. "Goodbye, Crowley."  
Aziraphale opened the door and stepped out into the downpour. The droplets stang Crowley skin like blades, turning his auburn hair the colour of rotten wood.   
_Why do you always seem to forget that?_  
Why did he? Was he ashamed of being a demon? Did he, deep down, wish that he was still an angel? Did he simply not care?  
It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up, and let loose every last tear of misery and pain and anguish. A child torn from their mother, a betrayed friend, a spurned lover.  
 _You deserve this, Crowley,_ the clouds whispered. _You chose to fall. You did made that decision, and you can deal with the consequences._  
And as the angel disappeared into the distance, darkness shrouding the white figure, Crowley let misery envelop him.   
Everything was glass, thin and fragile and pathetic. His heart most of all. Everything was glass, and he hadn’t realised until someone had come in with an axe.

*

“ _Come on, angel, don’t look at me like that. We could always come back. No-one would notice. No-one would care._ ”  
The words flashed through Aziraphale's mind. They had been spoken so long ago, but Aziraphale still caught the same quiet sadness in Crowley's eyes, the same urge to pack up and go. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.  
It was easy to mistake sadness for malice or anger or a hundred other emotions that could've lingered in those serpent eyes all too easily. But Aziraphale knew. Always, hovering just under the surface, like a wound he’d never let heal properly.  
Crowley had got far better at hiding it, concealing it under the slick façade he'd built. It no longer ran off him like water from a broken dam.  
But he could see it. He could always see it. Those sad, sad eyes.


	8. too much love will kill you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo finally another update.  
> issa sad one, sorry! trigger warnings: mentions of suicide

When they finally met again, it was autumn. The leaves were beginning to brown, and fall onto the muddy pavement, where they would spend the rest of their lives being trodden further into the dirt.

Crowley had scripted the meeting meticulously. He had tried his hardest to make everything seem organic- he'd even come up with a few jokes as icebreakers. Maybe he should have used those, lightened the tone, instead of going in with the snowplough. He had tried to be nice, but Aziraphale wasn't having it. Especially when he'd said they were similar. He should've known that was a bad road to travel down, what with Aziraphale's shining purity and all that. He instantly put on his holier-than-thou face. Crowley would've only been slightly surprised if he'd gone the for the full garb, sprouted wings and a halo. You could tell when Aziraphale was annoyed. He never outwardly said it, but he would get overly snippy, passive aggressive in the way that nothing you say could make him happy. Of course angels weren't allowed to participate in those sort of emotions. By sitting in those kind of feelings you weakened your soul, tainted it. That was what he’d said anyway. Made it easier for the Devil to sneak in and snatch it. The side effect of this was that Aziraphale shoved them all down and left them to ferment, and it would all come out at the worst possible moment. Crowley could barely remember what sins he'd committed yesterday, let alone last year, but Aziraphale...well, Aziraphale remembered everything. Especially if it had irritated him.

He never hesitated to remind Crowley that he’d fallen. It still stung. Well, he knew he was a demon, and it wasn’t like he could change it. Hell, he’d spent long enough regretting it to realise that he might as well enjoy it while he could. It was the disgust in his eyes when he said it. Faint, but still there. Crowley was still waiting for it to spread like a tumour, for Aziraphal to snap and realise that Crowley disgusted him. How slow the whole thing was. How agonising. It felt like with every meeting, Aziraphale was growing further from him. It stung, how quickly Aziraphale was to deny their similarity. Crowley was sure that was the one thing they’d agree on, after all this time they’d spent together, all these fucking years. 

He hadn’t been openly aggressive. But Crowley could tell. He was getting irritated.

He knew he’d be adding fuel to the fire by asking Aziraphale about the holy water. But he needed to know. 

He didn’t know what emotion Aziraphale was feeling, but it had honestly looked like he was about to cry. For a flash.Then he had returned to his usual righteous indignation. But it was still there. And Crowley had thought, for a second, that they could go back to what they had before. It was cruel really. Like taunting.

He genuinely hadn’t wanted it for a suicide pill. He was telling the truth, he was scared. That night when Hastur turned up on his doorstep unannounced, hew was terrified. But he couldn’t deny that it had put the idea in his head. He was wondering if it would be better, in a way, for the both of them. Because this was obviously never going to work. He shouldn’t think that. He knows he shouldn’t.

But the thought wouldn’t go away.

And then he had to go and bring up the fraternising again.

Crowley was starting to think that Aziraphale had never really liked him, he’d just hung out with him because he was lonely and bored. Did he go home after a day with Crowley and scrub down in his holy water shower? Did he get regular checkups on his soul to make sure there weren’t any impurities forming? Was he overthinking this?  
Had Aziraphale ever flinched when Crowley had touched him? Had he seemed uncomfortable, or awkward, or frustrated? Had he-- 

Crowley dragged his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. They just kept coming, this onslaught of thoughts that wouldn’t go away, no matter how irrational or stupoid Crowley knew they were. He slapped his head. His bare apartment looked back inquisitively at him. The white walls seemed to be closing in.

“ _Has he ever really liked you, Crowley_?” 

“Fuck off,” Crowley muttered. He didn’t want to go crazy. Especially not over Aziraphale. 

“ _You’ve already passed that, love_ ,” his pot plant whispered. “ _Normal people don’t have conversations with their furniture, now, do they_?”

“Fuck off!”  
Crowley landed his fist squarely through the pot, shattering the pretty ceramic pattern. His hand was burning. 

But the room seemed to be murmuring, grasping at him , even when he shut his ears. “Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut up!” 

“ _Aziraphale doesn’t care. He just knows that if he gave you the holy water himself he would be sinning_.” 

Why had he said that? He needed Aziraphale, he needed him so badly. Why had he kissed him? Why had he fucking done that, everything was going so well, why--  
He’d just wanted to sound suave, he hadn’t meant it to come off like that. There was no-one else. It wasn’t like he could just send Ligur a note asking to ‘hang’. 

The room was so loud, and everything seems to be chanting at him, and he couldn’t think. He couldn’t think, and he curled up on the floor. All he could hear was Aziraphale's voice, Aziraphale’s voice scorning him, Aziraphale’s voice snarling at him, Aziraphale’s voice.

_Fraternising._

“I don’t want to die,” he croaked. “I don’t--I don’t...I--”

Everything was so dark, and the air was too heavy for Crowley to breathe painlessly.

Everything was so dark, and everything was so loud. 

He didn’t know. He really didn’t know.


	9. it's a hard life

Crowley had had a dream. He didn't dream often, and when he did, it usually wasn't pleasant- there was once a particularly horrific occasion where Belial had needed to tell him something urgently, but when he had started talking through the head of a decapitated snake, Crowley had been so terrified that he stomped on it quite thoroughly. Belial was adamant to this day that he still had bruises (Crowley had yet to see the evidence) and he was pretty sure that this had reached Head Office, because he'd never been contacted like that again. And he was glad, honestly. The whole ordeal was rather traumatising. He didn't understand why they couldn't just send notes, or you know, speak to him face to face.

In the dream, he had beautiful wings- white and shining. He still remembered when his wings had been like that: the way they would rest on his back, grand and powerful, instead of the ones he had now, that seemed to hang down like lead, even when he flew.

He was flying, in the dream, through the clouds. The sun was just rising, and it had tinted everything the fairest shade of gold. He felt free- light and airy and happy, for the first time in years. He'd been happy, Hell, he'd been happy recently, but it was the dark, heavy kind of happy where you knew you would be sad again later.

It wasn't for any particular reason that he was sad. (Well, apart from the whole Aziraphale business, but Crowley hadn't really ever thought that he should allow himself to feel sad about it- it was his fault after all, and Aziraphale had been perfectly justified in acting the way he did. Thinking about it later, Crowley had decided that Aziraphale had been rather kind about the whole affair, considering. And then he had promptly smacked his head against his brand new cherry wood bookcase, because he was thinking about him again.) But it weighed down on him, in his chest and his wings and his head, and he seemed to be in this sort of funk, this perpetual state of misery, the kind that if anyone had asked him how he was, he might've just broken down and wept. (Apart from Aziraphale of course, he was so used to putting on a cool face around him that he couldn't understand why he hadn't simply restrained himself better.) _Fuck. Stop thinking about it, Crowley_ , he thought.

Though of course, no one asked him how he was, because he was a demon, and a suave one at that. And demons didn't feel things, apart from malice and hate and avarice. Sadness didn't count, and despite being a deadly sin, lust was completely off limits. (Though Beelzebub seemed to be testing that.)

He would make it up to Aziraphale. In a way that didn't seem like an apology, of course. But the truth was, Crowley had realised just how bloody lonely he got. And despite his best efforts, he couldn't keep away from Aziraphale. (Though he would never admit that to himself. Not for a very long time, at least.)

Crowley had decided he didn't care.

Well, he knew he did, the way a tired parent pretends not to know where their child's toy piano has mysteriously disappeared to. But he had adamantly decided that it didn't matter. And perhaps, if he kept telling himself that then it really wouldn't. Perhaps he had been overreacting. Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding. He could apologise, and that would be that. They would go back to being...whatever they were. It wasn't like their relationship wasn't complicated already. The Arrangement seemed to have so many footnotes that it made the American Constitution look like an epigraph.

The silence that hung between broken sentences wasn't as heavy as it usually was, and Aziraphale had even offered him several tentative smiles.

"Aziraphale—" The angel looked up at him. _His eyes_ , Crowley thought. _His beautiful eyes— Satan and all the princes of Hell, shut up. SHUT UP_.

"Aziraphale," he started again. "What do you think of the Titanic?"

Aziraphale smiled at him. "My dear boy," he began. Crowley felt a flash or warmth and shoved it down so aggressively that he would've given Bramah a run for his money.

"What are you suggesting?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows in a way that he thought was exceedingly nonchalant. "Oh, nothing. I just thought it would be fun to check out."

"Crowley, we couldn't just blag our way onto the Titanic, it's already fully booked."

"When has that ever stopped us before, angel?"

"And besides, what if we get caught? We'd be on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic, and if someone... someone important happened to—"

"It's okay, angel. I've got it all covered. Got the tickets and everything. I've made them show me the lists—"

"Crowley!"

"It was nothing! Just some light intimidation, totally psychological."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "And the tickets?"

Crowley sighed as though he was in a great deal of pain. "Completely legal."

Aziraphale nodded approvingly. "Thank you, dear," he said, his voice slightly softer. He smiled, with all his rosy cheeks and his shining eyes. Crowley flashed him a quick grin, his insides burning.

"You know, Aziraphale, your hair looks like cotton candy."

"What?"

"Your hair. It looks like cotton candy."

Aziraphale continued staring at him for a second in a dreamlike state, before registering what Crowley had said. He gave him a repulsed look.

"I should jolly well hope not. Disgusting stuff. Gets stuck to everything." But he said it softly, and kindly, and Crowley's heart raised for a second.

They were friends again. Or at least, closer than they had been.

And for that second, to Crowley, the world did not seem quite so grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realised i wrote "his eyes. his beautiful eyes." and that's literally the fuckin fleabag quote where she's talking about the hot priest and she says "his neck. his beautiful neck." lmao.
> 
> thanks to everyone who's been reading, it means the world.


End file.
